United in Death
by SavvyPirate101
Summary: Lockwood and Co. is introduced to Sherlock Holmes, and Lucy notices how similar, and how different, Lockwood and Sherlock are.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a crossover between Sherlock and Lockwood and Co. (duh ;-p ) Lucy and the bunch are asked to a murder scene to clean up, when they meet the great Mr Holmes.**

The phone rang at 3am. Seriously, when would we get a break? It was Barnes, and there had been a murder. At least _that_ was new. We were being called to clear the site of sources and anything that could bring back a ghost.

"Come in, agents," Barnes greeted us quietly. "I want to introduce you to someone." There were bags under his eyes and his moustache drooped. _Clearly_ , someone didn't get much sleep either.

As soon as we had entered the house, we saw the body, and around it, people I had never seen before. A man in about his forties - he was greying, but retained a youthful appearance - looked up and stood. "Hello, Inspector Barnes. Are these your. . . _agents_?" He said the word with a kind of disbelief. As if we were just little children who didn't understand what was going on.

"Yes," the men shook hands. "Lockwood, please introduce your agents to Inspector Lestrade. I need to talk with some of the psychics." Lockwood turned to the man and held out his hand.

"Anthony Lockwood, head of Lockwood and Co." Lestrade shook his hand.

"And your agents?"

"Yes, these are my agents. Lucy is my listener, and George is our head of research."

"Ah, nice to meet you three. Anthony, could you come this way? Bring your friends." I could see Lockwood visibly cringe the way he always did when anyone called him his first name. Well, anyone but _me,_ but that's another story.

Lestrade led us over to a pair of men around the body. Oh, the body. It lay in a pool of blood, which was oxidising, into a thick, dark mess. The face was ashen and dry, and the skin looked as if it had been stretched over the skull. The fingers faded into purple towards the tips, and were stiff and straight. The chest had been slashed into a ribbony mess of blood and flesh and fabric. Lockwood pulled me towards him with a strong arm, and I tore my eyes from the corpse to the two men surrounding it.

One was deeply engrossed in the crime scene, bent knees and keen eyes, the other watching him with a humoured expression, arms crossed. Stranger #2 is the first to notice us, and walks over, a coffee in his hand. He has smile lines around his eyes and mouth, which gives him seem kind, and he's just a bit taller than me, but shorter than Lockwood. His fleece vest matches the sandy colour of his hair, which is kind of cool, I guess.

"Are these the psychics?" He asks the inspector. I can't help rolling my eyes a little. Lestrade chuckles and shakes his head.

"Nah, they're the agents, John. They look for anything that could be a _source_."

"Ah, so they need to look over the body."

"Yes. Sherlock should be able to help." I sigh. If we have to be handed over to different hands one more time I would just go and do my own thing. The first man, Sherlock, stands now, and the first thing I notice about him is his height. He towers over me like a ghost light. The second thing I notice is his long dark coat, with its collar turned up. His frame is thin, and his cheekbones are prominent below piercing blue eyes. Dark tousled hair frames a sallow face, and long, pale, bony fingers steeple together in front of a delicately thin nose.

"Ah, this is Lockwood and Co., I presume."


	2. Chapter 2

**AUTHOR'S URGENT NOTE: I AM SO SO SO SO SOSOSOSO SORRY. I am horrible, I haven't updated in AGES when I'd promised to update REGULARLY. The problem was, I had tests at the end of** last **term, then I went to a different country in the holidays without my laptop. Since I only had my I-pod, which didn't have my passwords on it, I couldn't access . I have, however, written this chapter a bit longer than the last, to try to make up for it. SORRRRRRRYYYYYY MY LOVELY READERSSSSSS. THANK YOU FOR THE COMMENTS, ALSO. They mean a lot to me and I love to hear what you think of my stories. Now, read pleasssseeee:**

Lockwood nods at Sherlock and holds out his hand, waiting for Sherlock to take , the man clasps his hands behind his back and looks at each of us in turn. "The inspector told me about you three. Agents, he said. I would rather not deal with three children snooping around the crime scene but I have been told they 'need you'." Lockwood looked at me and back at Sherlock, smirking in disbelief. "I'd rather there be no 'problem' so that I could investigate in peace," Sherlock said this with such contempt Lockwood's smile vanished and he narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. Sherlock, however, continued speaking. "You are George Cubbins, am I right?" He asked.

George opened his mouth but Sherlock interrupted. "You do all the bookwork while these two fight the 'ghosts'. You're quite fond of your little friend group, I see. Ah, don't look surprised. You may act indifferent but it is written all over your face. As is your affinity for cakes." George removed his glasses with a huff and gave them an agitated rub on his jersey, only succeeding in smearing them with some jam that had stuck there without being noticed.

In this brief intermission between vicious insults, I heard and murmur from my backpack. "I think this man and I would have been good friends had I been alive," quipped the skull. As I had become quite adept at doing, I discreetly hit my backpack under the guise of stretching, earning a "I was just saying!"

"You, boy, are Anthony Lockwood," Sherlock continued. "You see things that nobody else does. That's your talent. You trust nobody, and seem to have the same addiction to danger as John over there does." He nodded towards the man in the sand-colored vest. "You have used that coat presumably on every case you've been on, judging by the stains, patches and scuff marks. You must have some sentimental value towards it." Lockwood was seething, and brought his hand to his belt, gripping his rapier hilt. Sherlock still didn't notice.

I nudged Lockwood in the ribs and he relaxed a bit, murmuring into my ear,"If he mentioned Jessica I believe it would have been his body we were investigating."

The detective turned to me lastly, and smirked. "And you're the girl. Lucy, I believe."

"Lucy Carlyle," I corrected, disgruntled.

"Yes. That. You're the one that hears things. You have no regard for personal hygiene, apparently, and even less for a crime scene." He looked pointedly at my boots, which were coated in mud and ectoplasm stains which had left marks on the floor. I grunted, running a hand through my knotted hair.

"I do value personal hygiene, I just had no time to wash last night!"' I snapped, finally giving in to Sherlock's taunts. It was true, we had gotten back to Portland Row after a case at 12:30 that morning, and tired as we were, we had a cup of tea and hopped into bed, only to be awoken an hour later.

John looked over at us and put down his tea, scurrying over to us and somehow managing to remind me of a hedgehog. It must have been his jumper. It had to be.

"Sherlock, what did I tell you about insulting the agents? Or anyone for that matter!" John grumbled, Sherlock just glaring at him. "I hate (lady cop) as much as you do but we need to do as she says. Show Lockwood & Co. around, tell them what they need to know about the MO and continue the investigation. Or can you not do that without inflating your ego?"

Sherlock scoffed and folded his arms, leading John to tilt his head and smirk, knowing he had won.

"I'm deducing."

"The wrong thing." Suddenly deflating, John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, which was quite comical as he was about a foot shorter than him. "Stop being a git Sherlock. I can take the smaller boy and the girl if you want."

"I only want to deal with the one that can understand what's going on," Sherlock jibed coldly.

Lockwood stepped forward and brought himself up to almost eye level with Sherlock. "If you take me you take my company too. These agents are the smartest people I've met in a long time, so don't you dare question their intelligence."

I looked at him, filling with pride and suddenly noticing how much older he looked since I had first met him. How alike he and Sherlock were in some ways. Yet, Sherlock's eyes were hard and void of the exuberance Lockwood displayed. Here before me stood a boy far older than his years, and a man who was cold and shut off. It scared me, because I knew. I knew that if Lockwood stayed shut away, he would end up just as hostile as Sherlock. When Lockwood put his arm around my shoulder I couldn't help realizing that I might be a contributing factor. I beamed. The two were so similar in stature, I noted, however, Lockwood's eyes were a warm, deep brown while Sherlock's were an icy blue-green. Sherlock was lanky and bony, while Lockwood was strong and slim. Lockwood smiled and nodded, gesturing openly to people, but Sherlock just stood, fingers steepled in front of thin, taut lips.

John caught my eye as I finished glaring at Sherlock and smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, he's always like that, but he'll come round soon enough." He said this with such fondness for Sherlock I was surprised; I didn't know a man like Sherlock could ever warrant positive emotions. From anyone. Let alone a man like John, who, when I looked back at him, was silently munching on a jam sandwich and watching the investigation proceed. Sherlock just gets urged to us with a wave of a hand to follow, and we did, all the way to the body.


	3. Chapter 3 - Author's note PLEASE READ

Hey guys,

I would just like to apologise for my lateness in uploading a new chapter. I don't remember my password on any of my other devices and I have it written down on my computer, so I wasn't able to upload then, and other times I kept forgetting. So sorry. I hopefully will have another chapter up soon. REALLY SORRY.

Love u guys

-Savvy


	4. Chapter 3 - Part 2 (actual story)

**HEY GUYS! Thank you so much for staying with me through my horrible lack of updates; I am so sorry. Here's chapter 3...ish? Yeah. Chapter three part 1.**

"The victim's name is Vincent DeLorenz. Dead for about an hour," Sherlock began. "Heavy alcoholic, judging by the redness of his nose and the potbelly, not to mention the psoriasis; I have a feeling if she didn't kill him he would have had not long to live anyway. Interesting."

"Wait, what?" Lockwood and I asked simultaneously.

"Did we miss something?" I continue, gesturing to the body. "Who killed her?"

Sherlock looked up, hands steepled in front of his mouth again, and widened his eyes. "You haven't figured it out?"

I wrinkled my nose. "Well it's a little hard," I replied, unimpressed. "We haven't slept." Sherlock just pulled up his sleeve to expose his forearm.

"Nicotine patches. You don't need sleep."

"Well, the smell of dead bodies and kitchen bleach is also kinda distracting."

Suddenly, Sherlock was in my face, eyes frantic.

"That's it! That. is. IT!" He grabbed me by the shoulders and Lockwood stepped forward protectively. "John! SHE UNDERSTANDS."

I stare blankly at Sherlock's pale face. "I understand what?

"THE SMELL." He lets go of my shoulders and gestures at the kitchen. Lockwood stands in front of me so that Sherlock can't grab me again and I tilt my head.

"The smell? You mean the dead body?"

"No no no no no. The _bleach_." He leads into the kitchen and we stand there for a bit before he starts talking again.

"What do you see?"  
"It's messy," Lockwood, says, deadpan.

" _Too_ messy, wouldn't you say?" We stared at him, wondering why he would bother judging a person's cleanliness in the middle of a murder investigation. "Look at the cupboards. Disorganised. And the benches? Dirty. The table is covered in food and everything else under the sun… so why is the floor spotless, and smelling of bleach?"

George pushed up his glasses and put up his hand. "Maybe she wanted to clean the floor first?"

"What kind of sense would that make? No. The rest of the room seems to be cleaned rarely. To have it smelling of bleach right after her husband's death means there must have been something unavoidable on the floor. Like blood."

"What?" I'm stunned.

"Mrs. Delorenze said she came home and found Vincent on the floor. Dead. Vincent is works at a night bar, so if we determine when he got home, which is around midnight based on the time of death. Had she found him on the floor, she would have gotten home after he had, meaning she would have been out doing something herself. Assuming he wasn't passed out on the floor, Vincent would have been… well… irked to find out his wife had been cheating on him-"

"Wait. _Cheating?"_

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Yes. Cheating. Keep up."

He turned to the sink. "There is a stand for rings next to the sink. Let's check which rings are on there, why don't we?" He picked up the stand and started to take off a ring at a time. "Nice, an engagement ring. Oh, and what else? A wedding ring." He holds it up to his eye and smirks.

" _Obviously_ , the inside of the ring is polished, compared to the outside of the ring."

"And?" I'm starting to understand more, but I need confirmation my theory is correct.

"And so she took the ring off more than she should for a married woman."

"Maybe she took it off to wash the dishes?" I suggested, but realised shortly why my theory was so wrong. "The dishes haven't been washed, and she would have had to pass the body to get into the kitchen."

Sherlock smiled a wild grin, enthused by the case. "Exactly."


End file.
